


Holding Vigil 'Till Sunrise

by KChan88



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Barricade Day, Canon Era, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 10:16:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14850869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChan88/pseuds/KChan88
Summary: The Amis meet in the Musain the night before General Lamarque's funeral, spending time together in the quiet before the world starts shaking beneath their feet. Enjolras reflects on the past, the future, and his friends, studying the stars and wondering what the sunrise might bring.A piece for Barricade Day 2018.





	Holding Vigil 'Till Sunrise

**Author's Note:**

> This contains some references to the family backstory I built for Enjolras in the Les Hommes de la Misericorde verse, but reading that is not at all necessary to understanding and enjoying this piece!

** June 4, 1832. **

The Amis gather in the back room of the Café Musain.

No one planned it, but it happened anyway. Members of a family gravitate toward one another in times like these, Enjolras supposes.

And they _were_ a family. No blood bond was necessary for that connection.

The air was full of secrets.

Secrets, and rage.

Rage and grief.

Grief and determination.

Secrets, because when the funeral procession happened tomorrow, a rebellion might break out. Secrets, because guns and powder hid in the dark corners of their various lodgings, waiting.

Rage, because people were dying. Of cholera. Of poverty. Rage, because a king sat on a throne of broken promises, the ghosts of the revolution calling out from the beyond.

_How are we still here?_

They’d paid for change with their blood, only to have so much of what they fought against restored. First Charles. Then Louis-Phillipe. The latter called himself _King of the French_ instead of _King of France_ , trying to imply he was close to the people, but that mattered little.

A king was a king. And a king could never give voice to the citizens.

Grief, because General Lamarque was dead.

Determination, because his death might spark a fire.

Enjolras hears it all in his head like a chorus set in minor key, growing louder and more dissonant as the minutes pass.

_Calm_ , he tells himself. _Peace_.

He closes his eyes, the red light from the sunset outside the window piercing through the black and warming him. He drums his fingers on the table, his over long hair loose and brushing against the tops of his shoulders. Courfeyrac teases him for being so out of fashion, even as he admires the effortless curls. Enjolras sees the future in his mind’s eye.

Suffrage.

Education.

Science.

Golden light drenches the images in his head even as red curls around the perimeter like the burnt edges of a map.

He always knew the price of that future was blood.

Perhaps not forever. Perhaps one day they could change the world without violence.

Not today.

A friendly hand on his shoulder draws him out of his reverie.

“All right, Enjolras?” Bahorel asks as Enjolras turns around, his dark eyes dancing with mischief even in this grave moment.

“I’m just thinking,” Enjolras tells him.

“As you always are.” Bahorel grins. “What are you thinking upon?”

“I wonder if people will criticize us for rebelling, because they might say that Louis Phillipe is not a tyrant.” Enjolras frowns. “They call him the _Citizen King_ , sometimes. What do you think?”

“I think he’s not a tyrant _yet_.” Bahorel stretches his arms out and links his fingers, cracking his knuckles. “But it doesn’t matter, in the end, whether he is or not. The whole system’s a damn wreck, isn’t it? Sometimes people mistake some benevolence for right. It’s complacency. Nothing more.”

Enjolras nods in agreement, gazing over at their friends. Joly and Bossuet sit with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, speaking in grave, contemplative whispers peppered with amused remarks, all of them buzzing with an anxious, exhilarated energy. Prouvaire sits nearby with Feuilly, the two of them looking at street maps of Paris. The larger group of them met for hours earlier, preparing and making plans for the next morning. Now it was just the nine of them.

Enjolras looks around, realizing Grantaire isn’t here.

**Eight.**

“Grantaire isn’t here,” Enjolras points out, glancing over at Bahorel in question.

Bahorel raises his eyebrows. “I’m surprised you’re just now noticing for how much our dear friend likes to talk. But you know how he is. I don’t think he wants to contemplate the possibilities that tomorrow might bring.”

Enjolras tilts his head.

“He may be an ass sometimes,” Bossuet says fondly, stepping up toward them, clearly having heard the tail end of the conversation. “But Grantaire doesn’t like to think on anything happening to any of us. I’m not saying anything will, but you know, it’s a risk. Joly and I will look in on him on our way home. We’re about to go.”

The sun sinks lower in the sky, a rush of orange-red light pouring through the window and across the floor. Paris quiets, the hush of something coming in the air as everyone waits for tomorrow.

Enjolras nods in response to Bossuet’s comment. Grantaire frustrated him to no end, sometimes, but it did feel strange to have him missing now. Joly joins them then, slipping his arm through Bossuet’s when he approaches, his green eyes dancing with anticipation and a touch of concern.

“Would you believe it?” he says, sniffling. “That I think I am coming down with a head cold now, of all times? What are you all talking about over here?”

“About our dear friend the _Citizen King_.” Disdain splatters across Bahorel’s words, and Enjolras chuckles softly. “Courfeyrac,” Bahorel continues. “If we found you a copy of the constitution, do you suppose you’d toss it into the fire as you did the charter?”

Courfeyrac looks up from his conversation with Combeferre, a sly grin sliding across his face. “Absolutely, Bahorel. What do you take me for?”

“The king can scamper off to Britain and give over the country,” Bossuet replies, wry. “He seems to like them so much. Well, we’d best be off, Jolllly.” Bossuet clasps Enjolras’ shoulder. “Don’t stay up all night thinking too much, all right, Enjolras? We have a possible riot to attend tomorrow.”

Enjolras smiles at Bossuet, feeling so very alive in the possible shadow of death. He doesn’t think death inevitable, tomorrow. He thinks they could find victory. He thinks they could live. The possibility of death thrums constantly in the background even still, though he finds he cannot linger too long in contemplation of those dark thoughts when he’s surrounded by his friends.

“I shall get my rest, Bossuet,” Enjolras promises. “Don’t worry.”

“Bossuet is incapable of worrying for too long, it’s against his nature,” Joly cuts in, grasping Enjolras’ hand with affection for a moment. “So I worry for him, and I say the same.”

Enjolras laughs, squeezing Joly’s hand in return. “I shall do as you wish, my friend.”

Joly grins at him, rubbing his nose with the tip of his cane. Bossuet and Joly bid everyone farewell after that, making their way down the hall and away from their favored back room.

**Six.**

Bahorel joins Feuilly by the maps, drawing Combeferre and Courfeyrac over as well. Enjolras gets up from his chair, going over and standing by the window as night draws itself like dark velvet over the sky.

“I wonder what the people of Paris are thinking tonight.” Prouvaire’s soft, lyrical voice floats over toward Enjolras as his friend joins him at the windowsill.

Enjolras turns, offering a smile as Prouvaire covers his hand with a breathtaking gentleness. Everything about Prouvaire was gentle: his voice, his touch, his words. But oh, he was fierce when he wished to be so. Intrepid. It only surprised those who didn’t know him well.

“I can only wish to know,” Enjolras answers. “Hopefully everything that’s happened will stir their hearts toward flooding the streets for change. I know…” Enjolras looks out the window again, watching the stars burst to life, the full moon flooding the dark streets with light. “I know they are weary. I know there has been so much tumult that it shook the core of France and broke her heart. I know the disappointment of just two years ago. We cannot remain weary, however. We must rest our eyes and rise again.”

Prouvaire looks out at the stars too. His eyes glimmer with the secrets of fate, his voice possessing the gravity of a prophet talking to a priest “I think we will find our victory. I believe that with everything I am.”  

 Enjolras moves his fingers so they’re intertwined with Prouvaire’s. “Tomorrow?”

Prouvaire meets his eyes, his gaze full of hope and determination and a touch of melancholy, as if holding a piece of himself in reserve for the loss the sunrise might bring. “The future will live, one day. Whether it is tomorrow or not. Men like us will see to it. I should like to see some of it myself, of course, with my own eyes. Hopefully I will. We will.”

Enjolras hears Feuilly mutter something he can’t hear, and it draws a booming, echoing laugh out of Bahorel, who claps Feuilly on the shoulder in return. Enjolras and Prouvaire grin at each other, sharing the same affection.

“We’d best be going, Jehan!” Bahorel exclaims. “You said you wanted to take a walk about the city, and it’s getting late. We’ll see you all in the morning for the riot.”

“You mean for the funeral?” Combeferre says, and Enjolras turns around, seeing him arch one eyebrow, a wry smirk on his face.

Bahorel flicks Combeferre in the shoulder. “You heard me, you sarcastic sass.”

Bahorel throws his arm affectionately around Prouvaire’s shoulder, whispering something in his ear about a graveyard that makes Courfeyrac shake his head with exasperated fondness.

Bahorel and Prouvaire say their goodbyes, leaving only Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Feuilly in the back room.

**Four.**

Combeferre joins Enjolras at the window now, stepping up close and curling his hand over the inside of Enjolras’ elbow, tugging him over gently so their sides touch.

“Libra,” Combeferre whispers, pointing out toward the sky with his free hand. “It’s meant to be the scales held by the Greek goddess of Justice.”

“Astrea,” Enjolras finishes. “I remember that one. I do like looking at the stars, but I think I prefer the sunrise.”

Combeferre tilts his head, considering. “I don’t think they’re disconnected.”

“No?”

“The stars lend light to the darkness until the sun rises again and washes it away,” Combeferre continues, his voice full of that familiar intrigue about the world Enjolras loves so much. “So, there is always light in the dark. Even nights full of shadow have a star out there somewhere, no matter how flickering and faint. They hold vigil the sun takes over.”

He meets Enjolras’ eyes as he says the last few words, and Enjolras’ heart lightens. He gazes at the rooftops of Paris out the window, his heart repeating one word over and over and over again.

_Rise._

_Rise._

_Rise._

Paris bleeds and breathes and dances with life. He will not stand to see his beloved city wounded any longer by disease and poverty and injustice. He will not stand to see France beleaguered by tyrants who see fit to keep the halls of power shut to the common man. He will not stand to see the world close its doors and leave people in the cold.  

_For every man a country_ , Feuilly always said.

A country.

A home.

A family.

Feuilly joins them at the window as if summoned by Enjolras’ thoughts, Courfeyrac following close behind.

“Libra.” Feuilly echoes Combeferre’s words, his eyes scanning the constellation. “Let’s hope the scales of justice draw people toward us tomorrow. Those that gave us their promises and those that didn’t.”

Feuilly clasps Enjolras’ hand briefly, his skin as warm as always. Feuilly gives Enjolras a tight smile, a determined wonder shining in his eyes as he looks back out at the skies, wondering what—and who—the morning might bring. Enjolras studies him in the faint light coming in through the window: his freckles stand out, his auburn hair longer than usual and half-hidden under his cap, the paint stains forever staining his fingers. Enjolras looks over at Combeferre and Courfeyrac next, noticing the small details in his friends’ countenances more so than usual, painting them across his mind as an artist might. Courfeyrac has an arm around Combeferre’s shoulders, his usual grin full of life and a hint of gravity, his green eyes soaked in thoughts of tomorrow. Combeferre’s spectacles slide down his nose as he brushes a stray brown hair from his eyes, his tall, lanky figure casting slender shadows in the moonlight. .

“I think they will.” Enjolras closes his eyes, breathing in deep as a breeze rushes in, as if the ghosts of revolutionaries past speak to them from beyond.

They will.

They’ll come.

They’ll rise.

If they didn’t, well…Enjolras knows what that might mean for them. But all things considered, he’d rather march toward tomorrow with hope and optimism in his pockets rather than a cloud of dread hanging over his head. He knows the risks. They all do.

They might win.

They might lose.

They might die.

They might live.

They will sacrifice something, no doubt. Just how much depends on what happens tomorrow.

He will take on whatever burdens he needs to, he will dive into the darkness to unearth the light.

He is as prepared as he can ever hope to be.

“Well, if they do come I hope they’ll bring some guns with them,” Combeferre remarks. “We certainly have a good many, but not as many as I’d like. It’s not been easy stockpiling them.”

The irony of Combeferre being the one among them who perhaps most wishes for a non-violent way to change—they all did, but it burned deep, deep in Combeferre’s bones—volunteering to lead the charge on collecting guns wasn’t lost on Enjolras.

Combeferre _was_ a good shot.

Combeferre longed for the beautiful. Enjolras made his home in the sublime. Both of them knew the bloody sunrise was the only way to reach a new dawn without violence. The new dawn of education and science and free speech without a sword.

Enjolras appreciates Combefere’s sacrifice more than he can say.

“Well, I was thinking about pulling out my old sword,” Feuilly replies, drawing everyone’s bewildered gaze. “I’m sure I could use it.”

Courfeyrac bursts out laughing. “You absolute secret keeper, Feuilly! Not telling me you had a sword. You know I like them and you know I am the proud owner of a sword cane.”

Feuilly chuckles. “It was a strange inheritance from my father. A long story. But I’ll carry him with me, tomorrow. I think he’d like that.”

“I’m certain he would.” Courfeyrac smiles warmly at Feuilly before removing his arm from around Combeferre’s shoulders and walking up behind Enjolras, resting his chin on Enjolras’ shoulder. “And just what are you thinking about, dear chief?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes, fond. “Don’t call me that.”

“I shall call you what you are,” Courfeyrac protests. “Anyhow, what _are_ you thinking?”

“Just wondering what the future holds,” Enjolras replies, feeling Courferac’s curls brushing his cheek.

“An utterly glorious sunrise,” Courfeyrac whispers. “Jehan will write verses about it, after we play our small part in bringing it about.”

Enjolras has to smile. Courfeyrac’s mere presence almost always demanded that. Courfeyrac kisses his cheek and Enjolras smiles wider, feeling nearly overwhelmed with emotion.

“I’d like to see what’s going on outside,” Courfeyrac continues, looking around at all of them. “Come with me?”

Feuilly and Combeferre agree, but Enjolras isn’t quite ready to leave.

“I’ll join you in just a few minutes,” Enjolras whispers. “I’d just like a moment.”

They all nod, agreeing to wait for him outside the café. They leave him alone after that, the back room silent and still.

**One.**

Enjolras leans his arms on the windowsill, closing his eyes.

The heartbeat of Paris thrums beneath the ground, the city itself alive as much as the people who live within its confines. He thinks of his parents in Marseilles, wondering if they’ve heard the news about General Lamarque. Wondering if they have any idea about the potential for revolt in the streets of their capital city tomorrow. His mother had long shared his politics. His grandmother too, who was half American and half French, fire running through her veins. His father was…more complicated. He once was once more of a radical, his passionate politics fading with time until he grew more cynical, the cynicism creating a rift between father and son.

Enjolras loves his father, even if they didn’t speak often now, because he knows his father’s anger stems from a worry over his son’s fate and future. Enjolras can’t give this up to please him, or to ease his mind. It was too important. Enjolras doesn’t aim to be a martyr; he’d rather be alive to continue the fight. But if the time comes and sacrificing his life is the only way to make a difference, then he’ll do it.

Even if that means tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after that.

He thinks of his mother and what her grief would be if she lost him, feeling a twinge in his chest.

He hates thinking of her feeling such a loss, but he cannot give this up. Not ever.

He wonders if she sensed who he was when he was born or as he grew up, the small fair haired child laughing in the sunlight with his parents. The child who always felt perhaps more than he ought to, wondering what to do with the overwhelming emotions as the years passed. He wonders what she thinks now of the more solemn young man he became, pouring over his books late into the night in the months before he left for Paris.

_I do love to see you smile_ , she told him, nearly every day.

_I’m happy to smile for you_ , _Maman_ , he said in reply.

Perhaps Flora and Aubry Enjolras always sensed where their child’s road might lead.

If he dies, who will write to them? Will they have to come collect his body and his belongings? He thinks of Feuilly with no family to come should that happen, a wave of sadness crashing over him.

He pushes the dark thoughts away, drawing light from his soul.

They’ll rise.

The people will rise.

Even if they didn’t, he’d force the dawn into his tomb before soldiers extinguished him. People would carry on their fight even if they could not. They’d survived 1830. Maybe they could survive this too.

A delighted shout draws his attention back to the present, recognizing the sound of Courfeyrac’s voice.

“Grantaire you scoundrel!” Courfeyrac exclaims. “You didn’t join the rest of us.”

“Don’t bother me, Courfeyrac, I’m taking a walk,” Grantaire grumbles, but Enjolras hears the fondness in his voice. “Don’t you have a riot to plan, or something?”

“Keep your voice down,” Courfeyrac chides. “Going and telling the whole world.”

Enjolras leans further out the window, spotting Grantaire just below. Grantaire seems to sense him looking and glances up, standing still. Enjolras lifts an unsure hand, waving in greeting. A tiny, unsure smile spread across Grantaire’s face and he waves back, looking sad in a way Enjolras cannot fully comprehend.

Something about it strikes him, but then Grantaire’s gone again, grumbling good-naturedly at Courfeyrac’s attempt to make him stay and wait with them. Enjolras has never understood Grantaire, even if he wished he could. Why hadn’t he come? That he did not share in the cause the same way as the rest, Enjolras knew, but Grantaire cared for them all, and they’d all gathered together. He clearly felt drawn toward this place, because he’d walked by on purpose.

Maybe it was all he could do, tonight.

Enjolras turns from the window, gazing around at the room, images of his friends and their society as a whole appearing in hazy images all over, memories living before him. He’s learned so much in this room. Here, his life as he knew it began, the passing of the years turning them all into a family.

_Les Amis de l’ABC_ , he hears himself say long ago. _That’s what we’ll call ourselves._

_ABC_ … Courfeyrac said, his eyes lighting him up as he realized. _Like abaissés. A pun. You clever man._

Enjolras hears his friends’ chatter below him, feeling the aching need to be by their sides. He retrieves his coat from the chair where he left it, sliding it back on and straightening his shoulders. He makes his way slowly through the hallway and down the stairs to the outside, finding his friends near the doorway, the sight of them making him smile again.

He believes.

He believes.

He _believes_.

Rise.

Rise.

_Rise_.

He loves France with every breath he takes. He believes in her. He believes in her people.

But he believes in his friends most of all. Every single one of them, as sure as his blood runs red through his veins.

They _are_ France.

They _are_ the revolution.

They _are_ the future.

As they walk into the night, he knows that whatever happens tomorrow, he will never let that go.

He looks up at the sky again as he falls in step with his friends, remembering Combeferre’s earlier words about the stars holding vigil until the sunrise burst over the horizon.

Perhaps some darkness is inevitable.

But so is the light.

As long as people like his friends, like the generations of hopeful, persistent revolutionaries before them keep fighting…

So is the light.

 

 


End file.
